


a monster of the soul

by lilac_heart (destinedtobelokid)



Series: NaNoWriMo bits and bobs [1]
Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: Depression, Gen, Self Harm, Suicide
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-11-11
Updated: 2013-11-11
Packaged: 2018-01-01 04:26:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,244
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1040319
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/destinedtobelokid/pseuds/lilac_heart
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>There's a monster inside of you, you're sure of it.</i>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	a monster of the soul

There's a monster inside of you, you're sure of it.

It clings to your chest, like a newborn babe seeking the comfort and warmth of its mother. It weaves its way into your lungs, as toxic and ugly as the fungi found in the darkest depths of the forests. It poisons your mind, like a plague washes through a village. It leaves you cold, with the weight of a thousand lives dragging your chest, claws gripping your lungs and pulling, making the simple act of breathing a difficult one. It leaves you with a tongue sharper than the finest dagger, and a temper running hotter than fire. It leaves you with the constant itch for a prick of pain, and a burning desire to hide in the deepest of pits. Its a nightmare that haunts your dreams with death and destruction, all the while cackling merrily.

Its a confusing thing, the monster in your body. One that no one seems to understand, or have a name for. Not even Gaius, with his books of medicine and all things magic. Nor Gwaine, with his tales of adventure and drink. Not that you asked him outright, no, it was more of a pondering thought said allowed over the flickering light of a campfire, answered with a frown and a query you denied with assurance of your good health.

The monster is a young thing; weak and more of an annoyance than anything else. It had begun pestering you, tickling at your throat, and snatching your words from your tongue. It left you feeling lost, with a small tug of loneliness, and later, as the nightmares began, guilt.

Truth be told, your nightmares are memories; of friends turned to witches, of children turned to hate, of innocents turned to ash. There's pyramids of fire, and choking screams, and too green eyes flickering with betrayal and death, and blood, so much blood. It coats your hands and refuses to leave your skin. You itch for it to go, plead silently while scrubbing your hands with ice cold water, until its red and raw and Gaius' eyes are puzzled and sad.

At first the monster was only of sadness and guilt. But it turned to anger and hate. Not to your guardian, nor your friends, but yourself.

There's a look of disgust in your eyes when you stare at your image in the grimy mirror set atop a shaky table in your small chambers. You detest, you loathe, you know not why, only that you do.

Eyes. Too dead. The colour seemingly drained, once they could have been likened to a summer's sky, or a lake's face, but now, smokey skies, tainted water. Skin. Too pale. There's shadows circling around your eyes, giving the illusion that they are sunken, more shadows lace along your cheekbones. Your face is gaunt, so very thin, so very tired, so very sad. You dare not think of how very sad the rest of your body must look; all ribs and skin and bone, with not a trace of fat to spare. So very sad, you are.

It's not something you can hide. Not even with a wide grin and a quirked brow to accompany a joke that's destined to fall flat. All eyes that see you must know, must see the sadness, they simply must. It's so obvious. You always have been to expressive. Always wearing your heart on your sleeve, as Mother used to tease.

All that you wear on your sleeve now is scars and thin red lines that are hidden away beneath the too long sleeves of your shirt. You're ashamed of those lines, so very ashamed. It had started in a moment of weakness; the dying cries of a child no more than ten winters old, the smell of burning flesh, the cold, cold eyes of a tyrant, and a numbing coldness in your heart. Not a day later, you were hunched over on the floor beside your bed, dagger in one hand, wet blood dripping into the other.

After that it became habit, routine. You often thought it kept you sane; the relief sated the monster inside you, if only for a little while.

No one knows of the monster, not truly. You mentioned prolonged sadness to Gaius once, he frowned and asked of your wellness. You didn't ask again. No one knows of the lines, either. You're too scared to tell, too frightened of sickened looks and angry questions.

You keep silent, you keep sad, you keep hurting.

It continues. And continues. Slowly you begin to lose yourself; your smile is long gone, even its fake replica breaking, and you do not yet know of how to mend it. Your humour is passing, slowly slipping through your fingers, until the sound of your own laughter is a distant echo. Next is your love, the spark, the enthusiasm. You no longer feel joy at the sight of Gaius, or Gwen, or Arthur, or Gwaine. You feel the urge to run, to hide, to keep them from getting too close. You may not be capable of love, but you still care; for their safety, they mustn't get too close, lest your monster take a fancy to them, and seek another victim. Your love of food dissipates, and you no longer taste. The desire to learn more from Gaius flees, and you can no longer concentrate on his lessons, nor your own magic book.

Your magic is sad too, now. It is quite, pushed away to make room for the monster. You miss your magic, but you mustn't play. If you do, someone will hurt. So you leave your magic, let it dim and call. You ignore the ache in your chest, and the burning of your fingertips, where your magic seeks its escape. You mustn't let it escape. If you do, someone will die.

Your monster keeps close, and sometimes you welcome it, others you cry for it to leave you be, to let you go. It does neither.

You're lonely, now. Surrounded by people, yet it is not enough. It isn't what you seek, you're not even sure you're seeking anything, you don't think you have the energy for that. Not anymore. Your energy left months ago, taking warmth with it. You are always tired and cold; fingers often going so numb you cannot feel, exhaustion getting so heavy you feel you could sleep forever. Sometimes, when you lie in bed, staring into the darkness, you wonder if you could simply not wake up again. The idea seems nice. Peaceful. Calming. You close your eyes, sleep takes you in its gentle hand, before easing you into the roughened hand of a nightmare, and you wake the next morning, heavy and cold and even more tired than before.

It strikes you as odd that no one comments, oh, sure, they look at you, and there's something akin to pity in their eyes, but no one asks. Not even Gaius, as he watches you take small bites of your food. Nor Arthur as he rants out a list of chores for you to accomplish. Not Gwaine as he attempts to snatch food from the plate of food you need to get to Arthur.

It is then, when no one comments, that you begin to think perhaps they do not care for you as you thought they did. The monster scrambles to seize those thoughts, and as the days pass, it uses them against you.

No one cares, why would they? Such a tainted creature, you are. Vile and filthy. There's blood on your hands that will not fade, just as the screaming refuses to leave your mind. There's magic in your veins, and you know magic is evil, that you are evil. You must be; you lie, you kill, you betray. Does an evil person not do the same?

The lines become deeper and your will to be careful about the wounds fades. You don't care if your hand slips and pushes the dagger to cut too deep. You don't care if the blood stains your sleeves, or seeps into your blankets as you sleep. The lines move; no longer limited to the skin of your forearm, you add to your collection, creating more and more lines on your stomach, your thighs, your hips, your sides. They grow and multiply in numbers, and you could never count them all, a number that precedes your knowledge of numeracy.

As your carelessness festers, you begin to forget the simplest of things; to eat in the morning, to close the door behind you as you leave Gaius' chambers, to reciprocate greetings. All mundane things, things that don't seem important, but stick in the back of your mind. But then breakfast becomes lunch, and the hunger pains start, and you don't care. The twinge of pain is somewhat pleasant, along with the near constant thing of your red, red lines. You know it's wrong, you can feel it. You ignore that feeling.

After a week, all you eat is the food Gaius has prepared for supper. You always feel sick afterwards, but you know that you must eat something. Elsewise, you'll fade away into nothing. The more you think about it, the more pleasing it sounds.

You collapse a week later, during a feast. Arthur beckons you to fill his cup, and you step forward, ready to serve, but then a wave of cold overwhelms you and you're falling. You're told later that Arthur had simply rolled his eyes, only to stop as your shirt sleeve was pushed up to reveal your collection of lines.

After that, everything is pity and too hushed voices. You are forced to eat, and talk, but you cannot stomach the food, nor speak an explanation. You have none. You are only sad, and guilty, and tired. You can't say why; they'd all think you evil. Their concern would turn to hate. They'd kill you. You decide that you wouldn't mind if they did.

You rest, and drink the broth Gaius forces you to have, and you remain quiet. The knights are cautious. Arthur is frightened. Gwen won't stop crying. Gaius is trying so hard. They all are. You don't want their help. You don't deserve it. You've caused them pain. You long to find a release, but while under constant watch, you can't.

No more than two weeks pass, before an opportunity arises and you gladly take it. There's so much pain inside your chest, so much sadness. You haven't been sleeping, or eating, or talking. You want nothing more than for the worry to stop, for the pain to stop. Gaius tells you in hushed tones that it will, given patience and care. You have no energy for patience. You do not care.

Gaius leaves Merlin for no more than ten minutes. An errand he must run, to a mother in the lower city who's new born baby has taken ill. You smile and wish the baby well, and Gaius takes his leave, eyes cautious as he assures you he won't be long. You know he'll be long enough.

The door is easy to lock, and the poisons easy to find. You do not think before drinking the entire bottle. You let go and it shatters on the ground; the sound alerting the outside guard. He knocks, you ignore him.

It takes not a minute before you are on the ground, shaking and so very cold.

The pounding in your head is growing, a thunderous roar, and you feel deaf. The sounds of shouting and thudding is so very distant. Just as you are so very tired. You only wish to sleep. Dizzily, you wonder if you will every wake up from this sleep. You smile weakly, you haven't done so in a very long time. Your head tilts upwards, staring blindly and your tongue is heady with the taste of poison. You can feel the toxins slugging through your body. It's completely painless, as you know from Gaius' lessons. A lesson taught long before the monster took you away.

Arthur's face swims before your vision, and you blink slowly. Everything is so slow, now. Arthur's mouth is moving, and his hands grabbing, but you can't hear or feel. You can barely see; the colours are so dizzying; the swirl of red capes that belong to the knights you miss, and the soft purple of Gwen's dress that you always thought was so pretty, even Gaius' brown robe is too much for your eyes. They're heavy now, eyelids drooping, and you're too weak too hold your head up. You're so weak and tired, now. So very, very tired.

You close your eyes, only for a moment, only to grasp one small slip of rest. The panicked shouting is dull to your ears, all you can hear now is your heartbeat; slow and thudding loudly. There's a hand slapping your cheek, and another forcing your mouth open, pouring something past your lips. But you can't feel it; the touch is cold, phantom. It can't be real. You're sleeping, now. And oh, you've longed for this sleep for so long. It's too late for the liquid in your mouth to save you. You swallow anyway, pure instinct.  
Eyes flicker open, only for the briefest of seconds. Then darkness welcomes you in a cold embrace.

You sleep a sleep of no nightmares and never see the light of day again.


End file.
